


Hunger

by ginger_green



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Dom Anders (Dragon Age), Dom/sub Undertones, Healing Magic, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Obsession, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Relationship, Predator/Prey, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: Anders has a hard time dealing with his crush. It doesn't help when Hawke shows a mildly unusual reaction to healing magic.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Hunger

What do you know of hunger?

Anders knows a great deal. Hunger of bones stretching out his skin. Hunger of stars shimmering so close - yet so far off. Hunger of rage the food of which is blood, the kind that drinks and drinks until it’s full and still wants more, the kind that will not cease until the land he walks is barren waste and every home is ash.

And yes, this kind, too. The low, beastly suffering of solitude, the kind he’s learnt to cage and push down for his sake as well as that of others.

Darktown never really sleeps, but the noises of crime and poverty migrate up the streets this late into the night, leaving him to work in relative peace. The few candles he can afford are enough to spill light over his friend’s mangled body - the subject of his toil for tonight.

“Easy there, hero. Just breathe... and try to hold still.”

“I can hardly stop giggling when you get like that.”

Hawke smiles. He’s covered in blood head to toe, half-naked, he can barely move a digit - and he smiles, the cocky bastard.

“Stepping on somebody's toes again, are we?”

“Atheneril’s creditors... I really should start listening when she--agh!!” Hawke winces, clutching the red-striped shoulder. Anders covers the oozing wound with his palm. Red bubbles bloom between his fingers. Hawke’s skin is burning hot; he’s sweating.

“Shh. Deep breaths. And stop talking.”

Do you know of lightning that springs between your fingertips and somebody’s bare skin? Do you crave, to the point of burning, the careless brush of hand or shoulder, as it sets you ablaze like hot metal, as it melts through you, eats you, hurts you?

Has a healing spell ever been the most intimate gift you could offer? Has it ever occurred to you that the blood spilling thick in your palm was, by the droplet, more valuable than gunpowder and gold?

Anders struggles to stay focused as blue circles of light spread from his hand across the bas-relief of Hawke’s muscles. There’s blush in his patient’s cheeks - dark honey under heavy bronze. He exhales with ease. His features soften.

“Ah.” He stretches, body pushing against Anders’ palm. “That feels... good.”

The way he says it makes Anders’ pulse quicken.

He keeps his hand steady on the trembling body, nurturing it with magic, pouring life into it bit by bit. He forces his eyes not to wander, not to trail off down the man’s abdomen, not to caress and savor every detail they can catch.

Hunger. Ravenous, feral hunger. It makes its way through you like a swarm of locusts, and nothing lives, nothing screams in its wake - as all life is drowned out by it.

It’s not until the wounds close and he can lift his head that he notices the softness in Hawke’s eyes - not the usual gratitude but the shade of something... deeper. And the way he sighs as each impulse of magic sinks into his flesh... soft. Warm air from the weakened lungs. Catch him. Hold him. And feed, and feed...

Anders swallows hard. _Don’t think of it don’t think of it don’t think_

“You’re glaring.” Hawke looks at him heavy-lidded, and chuckles. “See anything you like?”

“No, I was just--nothing.” The realization is like a splash of cold water. “Relax and get some sleep. I’ll finish up here and--”

That’s when the pulse of light flashes brighter - a stir of emotion that’s crept uninvited into the spell.

And Hawke _moans_.

The sound is very subtle. But it’s enough for something inside of Anders to snap in half to never be restored. In a glimpse the whole of Hawke’s body is engulfed in blue flame, it crawls up Anders’ wrist, it licks his skin and clings to the hair. He doesn’t think before his lips press a kiss into Hawke’s jaw - rough stubble against the flick of a tongue. His body burns in cold sweat and he draws back, ready to be slapped and pushed away.

“Oh Maker, I’m so sorry--I mean it’s not like--this reaction is completely normal, I just--”

“Oi,” Hawke breathes out smiling. “Not enjoying yourself?”

“What?.. No, I am, I mean--no, I didn’t mean to--”

“Then stop talking, healer, and do your magic.”

His head is spinning. _This isn’t what we’re here for_ , rings a voice he can barely hear. _He’s not our mission, not our cause. This will only end in harm and distraction._

_Shut up_ , the hunger answers. _We’ll catch ablaze if we stop._

Each kiss he plants upon the freshly healed scars is but a small bite for the starved animal. No matter if he’d rip a muscle or shatter a bone between his teeth - it’s not enough. Hawke ruffles his hair, laughing under breath, and for that laughter he’s ready to murder. He grasps Hawke’s wrists, even though the wounded is hardly capable of any movement as it is. It’s not the function that matters but the symbol. _Mine. Mine. Finally, briefly, be it first and last time - mine._

The healing blue spreads steadily this time, not a gush of flame but a drumming pulse. It’s not the same as touching - better, more intent, and not as conscious. It wraps tightly about Hawke’s thighs and ankles, enroots into his body, akin to electricity and yet - gentler. The prey whines, his breaths now shallow and rush. Anders traces his collarbone with the tip of his tongue; the taste of sweat intoxicates him.

“Like it?..” His own voice is alien, rasp and low. “Stop squirming... Yes, that’s better. Good boy.”

The prey is obedient, willing. It sates the hunger somewhat. Threads of blue climb over Hawke’s chest; he gasps. They are not burning but rather tingling, brushing his ribs and stomach, they envelop him in a net that tightens and loosens with his breath.

“Hell yeah. Love it.”

Hunger. What do you know of it? What do you know of drinking one’s warmth like water? Hawke writhes as the magic tightens its hold of him. His moans and laughter tangle into a happy bubbling sound. It wakes a different kind of craving, a tender, heartbreaking one - the wish to make him laugh more, to be the liquid between those bubbles, to never hold but cling and follow. Anders kisses him with newly found softness - still not on the lips but the cheek and the shoulder, the sweat-drenched angle of the masculine chin, the laugh-lines and the corner of his mouth. This hunger isn’t sated by willingness, for it is not fed by possession.

Have you ever held someone with not just your hands but your very being? Have you spent time beyond measure drowning in their eyes? Has it ever been hard for you to stop touching, exploring somebody’s limits, finding new shades within the color of their skin?

“ _Fuck_.” Like whenever he’s drunk or afraid, Hawke’s vocabulary is fairly limited. “Fuck, this feels wonderful.”

Has the fire in your soul ever melted into the kind of longing that leaves your heart sore, ever present, never truly lifted, never knowing what it really wants? To become the reflection of light in their eyes. To find the rhythm of their breath and breathe as they do. To simply be there, always, and not be there - so that they’re never shadowed by you, so that they blossom in your arms and show you what they truly are. Anders bites into Hawke’s neck, barely skin-deep, but enough to latch on and not let go. If only blood was the one thing he craved, if only he could bleed Hawke dry and be full at last. But he won’t. No matter what he does, it’s not enough.

“Anders, I--”

“I know... Deep breaths, hero.”

His heartbeat is the rhythm of magic waves - a frantic mess of blue threads and flashes. As Hawke’s breath deepens with a long moan, he leans in close to feed the beast he knows he can never satisfy. Painful in a way. But maybe it’s for the better.

His prey falls, exhausted, and for a brief moment he yearns no longer.

Hunger. What do you know of it?

**Author's Note:**

> previously posted on tumblr for the-smut-cafe prompt 'Obsession'. check 'em out, they post lots of DA content ;)


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